Fly Boys
by Arsenal 14
Summary: Fly Boys is another bringing of a resident evil saga!!!!!!
1. Chapter 1

RAF MARSTON, WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND  
  
00:58 HRS, 15TH JUNE 2003   
  
  
The guards stood in the cold, cursing everything and everyone that had put them in this situation. The rain lashed down with its usual zeal, whilst the two men huddled deeper into their issue waterproofs. The rain meant more hassle, the assault rifles each man carried would require extensive cleaning when the pair eventually returned to the guardroom. This was a huge pain in the ass for men who wanted to just sit and watch late night TV in the warm with a hot cup of coffee. The RAF airbase they guarded was now on high alert, which came with the added weight of flak jackets and combat helmets. "Did you hear the Army has closed all the hospitals to everything except emergency cases?" Said the first man as he attempted to find a more comfortable position for his rifle.   
  
"Yeah, my sister was saying that she's had to arrange a home birth because everything except Accident and Emergency is closed down." Said the second as rain dripped into his eyes.  
  
"It must be down to these "Civil Disturbances"." Continued the first man, putting quotation marks into the air with his hands as his rifle hung slack on its strap.  
  
"That's some creepy shit," Said his companion. "All those weird murders at that funeral home. I reckon its some cult, with human sacrifices and all that crap."  
  
"Whatever it is, its got RAF command freaked out. We haven't been on this alert since last September. There's more to it than some cult murders, I'll tell you that for nowt." Theorized the first man, yawning deeply as he finished.  
  
"What's the time?"  
  
"Oh one hundred." Came the reply.  
  
"Bollocks, still an hour to go."  
  
The wind gusted, driving more rain into the airmen's shivering forms. Both men stared at their boots, another hour was a depressing prospect. The thought of caffeine and Jerry Springer repeats kept the guards from whining further.   
  
"Did you see Jerry earlier?"  
  
"What the "My wife used to be a man" one?"  
  
"Yeah, it was fucking awful."  
  
"How could you not notice?" The first man spat.  
  
"I know its disgusting."  
  
"Imagine the wedding night…"  
  
"Your sick, mate." Laughed the second man.  
  
The first man looked up and saw a group of ten drunk's lurch into view. He groaned, drunks were a pain in the ass at the best of times, but this lot looked completely shit faced. "Great, we've got customers." Said the first man, already working out how best to deal with this drunken mob. The two men spread out, the first man ready to check ID, the second dropping back to give covering fire if needed.  
  
"That's far enough," Shouted the first man as the drunks reached a point about ten feet from him. "Come forward one at a time, showing your ID cards."  
  
The mob dually ignored him and continued to stagger forward on masse.  
  
This was bad, drunks were normally awkward and abusive to the guards, but they never outright disobeyed a man with a loaded rifle. Perhaps some shock tactics would convince them of the error of their ways.  
  
"Airforce stop or I fire!" Shouted the first man, as he began to take in exactly how bizarre this group was. Two of them were wearing dark suits, like the kind people wore to funerals. A woman in the shadows seemed to be wearing jogging gear. A man at the back was naked! This wasn't a bunch of pissed up night clubbers.   
  
  
As the first of the group appeared from the semi-shadow it became obvious that his face was partially missing. Glancing at the others, all of whom sported wounds of varying severity, the guard took an involuntary step back. The mob closed in, and the airman fumbled for the cocking handle on his weapon, attempting to chamber a round.   
  
"Joe get some help!" He yelled to the panic stricken cover guard.   
  
Joe ran yelling back to the guardroom, his shouts distracting the other airmen from sleep or Jerry Springer. The first guard continued to back away from the advancing mob, he had to do something, but he would be in deep shit if he fired on unarmed people, no matter how strange they looked. The lead injured drunk lunged at the guard, its mouth open, trying to bite him. It let out a frustrated hiss as it missed. The guard swung his rifle in horror and the hard butt connected with his assailant's skull with a wet crunch. The attacker fell unconscious to the floor. The guard had expected this display of violence to sober the remaining drunks up, but they continued toward him eyes filled with strange longing. The woman jogger reached him next; the guard lowered his rifle and fired into her leg. The shot rang out around the base. The woman jerked slightly and then continued to limp forward, not uttering a sound. The guard raised his rifle to her head, but it was too late, three drunks plowed into him from the side, in surprise he pulled the trigger blowing away the left side of the woman's face. Pinned to the ground by the drunks, the guard screamed and struggled until the agony of his face being eaten caused him to pass out. When he awakened hours later, he felt no pain, only hunger…   
  
  
  
  
FLIGHT 2079, OVER READING, BERKSHIRE, ENGLAND  
06:39 HRS 12TH AUGUST 2003   
  
  
It was dawn; the early morning sun had just begun to burn away the landscapes thin coating of dew. The gentle rustle of the wind blew newspapers and trash through the deserted streets of the City. Small fires burned, cackling as they consumed abandoned cars and gutted shops. The City's inhabitants were nowhere to be seen, the dried blood stains that splattered pavements and walls were testament to the their foul end. This eerie silence shattered as the camouflaged form of a military helicopter flew overhead, the noise and vibrations causing the City's new owners to emerge from their dark corners. Sergeant Danny Wilson gazed from the forward door of the Chinook, the gentle warmth of the sun bathed his face as he scanned the ground below for survivors. A veteran of hundreds of missions, the Sergeant was well used to the howling wind that whipped past the helicopter's door. At 23 years old Danny was fast approaching his 3rd year in the Royal Air Force. Back when he signed up, he would have laughed if someone had told him where he'd be today. Flying over enemy cities was nothing new, but the enemy below was. At least when he'd been shot down over Baghdad during the Second Gulf War, the Iraqis hadn't tried to eat him. Danny yawned deeply, and rubbed the stubble that seemed out of place on his young face. He lifted the reflective visor on his flying helmet and rubbed his squinting eyes, trying to infuse them with energy. He felt weary beyond belief; sleep had been a precious commodity since this nightmare had overtaken the world. Last night he had slept onboard the helicopter as it was refueled and rearmed for the next sortie. It had proved to be fitful sleep, in his nightmares the Sergeant had imagined being trapped on the City streets, the ever-growing army of the dead advancing on him, until he was trapped. He had tried to fight them off, but he had no weapons, desperately he had charged at them, trying to force his way to safety. Though weak the numerous creatures had quickly pulled him to the ground; the smell of rot and decay engulfed him, as what had once been a young woman knelt on the ground next to him. Her throat had been horribly savaged, and presumably devoured, as had her left arm and breasts. The mutilated female let out a terrifying hiss from her ruined throat and lunged at the Sergeant's neck. He awoke screaming attempting to fight off his phantom attacker, as ground crew rushed onto the chopper to investigate the commotion. He shook his head at the memory, facing these caricatures of humanity awake was disturbing enough, but when they invaded your unconscious then there truly was no escape.   
  
  
The Chinook banked round sharply, straining his red and sores eyes into the distance he could make out Reading's main train station, the large building seemed undamaged, however the oily black smoke that gently floated up from it told a different story. A packed refugee train had collided with an Army munitions freighter some weeks previously. The whole area was now swarming with Deads. Danny stifled another yawn and tried to find a more comfortable position behind his mini-gun. His opposite number, Sergeant Bolton, shuffled a similar dance the other side of the Chinook. The man's bulky flak jacket was making his search for comfort even harder. Despite its cumbersome nature, Bolton insisted on wearing the jacket to guard against ground fire. He cited rumors of cults that worshipped the Deads; the news said the Americans were having major difficulties with them. The tall dark Loadie was most women's fantasy date, until he opened his foul mouth. Not that he really cared anyway. The black haired Sergeant had been loyal to his former wife throughout their nine-year marriage. But like the majority of the crew's families and friends, Bolton's wife and young daughters had unwillingly sided with the enemy. Bolton had once said he'd constructed a factory in his mind. The factory converted grief and depression into hatred and revenge. This seemed to have saved him from a lonely suicide. Unlike the chopper crew's previous Loadie, who upon learning of his entire families' abrupt end, had taken the worlds messiest painkiller. Danny had forced himself to clean the inside of the Chinook afterwards, tears fresh in his own eyes from the news of his parents' demise. A sharp hiss in the Sergeant's ear made him jump, he realized it was the radio, but for a split second he thought his nightmarish killer had smuggled herself aboard, and was making a rather more real attempt to tear out his throat. Flight Lieutenant Addison's disembodied voice crackled over the radio.   
  
"You boys see anyone down there?"   
  
His habit of addressing people as "Boys", despite them being older than him had not waned during the crisis. Only Flying Officer Swanton was younger than Addison's 22 years.   
  
"Nothing Sir, just the usual characters" Replied Wilson.  
  
"How about you, Bolton?" Crackled Addison.  
  
"Nothing but fucking zombies, Sir!" Reported Sergeant Bolton.  
  
"Fair enough, just keep your eyes peeled, we always find someone down there."   
Danny mulled over Addison's words. It was true that they did always find someone, at the beginning of the epidemic they had been rescuing hundreds of people a day. Unfortunately people had heard rumors of massacres, and had stopped coming to the landing areas to be retrieved. These atrocities were only partially due to the living dead. Apart from one incident were the flesh eating fiends overran a landing area, and devoured its defenders and occupants hungrily. The problem was the strict orders the military were given on eliminating anyone back who had been "Heavily Exposed" to the undead, or more specifically bitten by a zombie.   
  
  
Citizens wishing to be rescued were examined by medical staff for bites or other symptoms of infection. If deemed uninfected people were allowed through the inner security cordon to board one of the waiting choppers. If however the potential evacuee had shown symptoms of infection they were directed to a "Treatment Room". The Infected person's family or friends who had made it onboard a chopper would be reassured that their loved one would be evacuated later after treatment. However the only treatment these unfortunates received was a silenced 9mm round in the head. This slaughter had multiplied exponentially, and the soldiers had ended up killing the living as often as the dead. Now that the landing areas had been largely abandoned, it fell to the chopper crews to carry out these summary executions. As Danny stared down at the zombie-infested streets, he pondered this brutal method of keeping the chaos under control. The idea repulsed him, but unfortunately there wasn't a better one. Anyone who was bitten was lucky to last three days before turning. The medics had no cure for it, even if the wound was not life threatening, the victim always succumbed to infection. He didn't know how word of this practice had leaked out, but it had, and it made searching for survivors a lot more difficult.   
  
  
Tower blocks zipped past Danny' vision as he considered the fate of his remaining family and friends, he held out little hope that they were still alive. They all lived near the City hospital, the apparent ground zero for all this carnage and death. They had no firearms, no method of escape other than airlift, but so far he had not seen their names on any of the rescued lists back at the base. Worst of all, his girlfriend had worked in the hospital morgue, definitely a bad place to be. She was resourceful though, a former Army medic, if anyone could get out it would be her. When news of the air and artillery strikes against the hospital had reached Danny's airbase, he wept his way to the conclusion that he would never see her pretty face again. If she or his friends had died, the Sergeant hoped it was quick, and most of all that they had not come back. Danny swallowed back the lump that had formed in his throat, and renewed his mobile vigil from the breezy chopper door. A couple of ravaged streets flashed past then a burst of coordinated movement caught Danny's eye, a man in a blood sprayed T-shirt was running away from a shuffling pack of several zombies. From the speed of his running he didn't seem injured, but there was the danger of the zombies catching him up as he tired. Danny's earlier pain and grief was washed away by the adrenaline that began to flow through his veins.  
  
"I've got someone. A guy running north along Main Street." Shouted Danny into the radio. "Bring us around to the left. Drop fifty feet."  
  
As the transport helicopter lumbered round in its slow arc Danny aimed carefully at the group of pursuing undead, his finger resting gently on the mini gun's trigger. As soon as the chopper flew across the street Danny gave a short squeeze and the weapon spat a storm of lead towards the oblivious creatures.   
  
  
Dave saw the helicopter; it had also seen him judging from the way it began to loop round after flying over him. The clatter of the choppers guns made him dive for cover, were they shooting at him? Almost the same instant the thought struck him, the supersonic projectiles from the chopper's weapons lanced through the putrid abominations that pursued him. Rotten blood sprayed from the walking corpses as they were thrown back under the power of the assault, dust from the chewed up concrete enveloped them as they collapsed. Dave looked on in awe, if he'd had a weapon like that he wouldn't have had half the problems he'd experienced since leaving his fortified home to look for food. As the noise from the helicopter receded, soft moans emanating from a near-by alleyway caught Dave's attention, three zombies began making their ungainly way towards his prone form. Dave quickly got to his feet, and sized up his new attackers. These undead had clearly not died of natural causes; the first was a fat man in the tattered remains of a police uniform. He shuffled forward his face a mask of hunger, heedless of his own partially eaten intestines, which were hanging from the irregular gash along his abdomen. The second potential attacker lumbered forward, a young girl wearing a blood soaked Nike tracksuit, which repeated hits from a shotgun had torn open revealing the festering remains of her shattered body. Someone had also blasted the third creature with a shotgun; the hit had removed the left side of the man's face, but had not done enough damage to his brain to stop him. As the murderous trio advanced Dave began to look for a way out, but as he glanced to his left he saw four of his original pursuers beginning to stand again. Bloody holes had been punched through them, but without a crucial headshot they would not die.  
  
Terror coursed through Dave, the very though of those things touching him made him want to vomit. He glanced about, desperate for a way out, his breath came in rapid gasps, he didn't want to die another victim of these disgusting freaks. Suddenly the fat former policeman tripped, his feet entangled in his own dragging intestines, Dave saw his opportunity and scrambled over the cops stinking body running until the hungry wails of the dead grew faint behind him.   
  
  
Danny felt his stomach roll over as the Chinook continued it's sharp circle over Main Street, ignoring the strange sensation he continued to look for the man below. He could see the unmoving frames of the zombies he'd strafed. Only three had stayed down, the crimson pools of blood around their broken heads reflected the distant light of the sun.   
  
"I see him" Said Bolton. "He's climbing the access ladder on a large burnt-out office building to the left. About six zombies are after him."   
  
Bolton's mini gun spoke carving a swathe through the zombie's already diminished ranks. Spent casings fell from the deadly weapon to the street below like a bizarre metallic rain. Having released the trigger Bolton was satisfied to see the whole mob drop to the floor in a bloody flourish.  
  
"The buildings got a landing pad on the roof, Sirs." Bolton informed the pilots.  
  
"We see it, John." Replied the co-pilot, Flying Officer Swanton. "We'll come back around and land. Check this guy is clean."  
  
"Hammer any of those rotten bastards that tries to follow him" Advised Addison.  
  
"Yes, Sir" Replied the Sergeants in unison.  
  
The helicopter quickly completed its turn, as it neared the office building Addison and Swanton brought it to a hover. They then began its gentle descent to the heli-pad below, whilst the Sergeants lowered the Chinooks rear ramp, and drew there pistols. "If he's infected," Bolton tapped the pistol's barrel against his helmeted head. "It's your turn mate."  
  
"Yeah" Danny looked gravely at the pistol in his hand. "I'll stand behind him when we check him out, if they've got him, I'll drop him."  
  
"Hope it doesn't come to that though." Bolton sighed. "I would like to save someone today."   
  
The chopper shook as it made contact with the landing pad, as it settled the Sergeants walked down the ramp, grimly determined to give salvation of one kind or another.   
  
  
The zombies below now seemed a pitiful sight, the choppers second run against them had proved highly effective. Of the six undead that had chased him to the base of the building, Dave could now see only one moving. The hail of rounds had blown its legs apart, but heedless of its wounds it crawled forward, its single-minded purpose driving it toward the ladder it could not reach. With his murderous suitors decimated Dave continued to climb the ladder, he could hear the pitch of the helicopters rotors change as it flared to land. Dave considered climbing back down the ladder, but below, more zombies had joined their crippled fellow. There was now at least eight of the undead awaiting him at the base of the ladder. He decided to take his chance with the helicopter crew, what he had heard about them was only rumor, he had however seen zombie's actions many times. He reached the building's summit in time to witness last few feet the chopper's landing. Two men dressed in green flying suits emerged from the rear of the helicopter, eyes hidden by the dark visors on their helmets. The men cautiously approached Dave; his throat went dry as he noticed the pistols they had now trained upon him. The noise from the helicopter decreased as its engines began to idle, but the men still had to yell to be heard above the din.   
  
"Stand still," Said the taller of the two. "Do not try and run or we will shoot you." Dave stood statue like as the men took up positions in front and behind him. "Remove your clothing." Said the one at his front, an imposing man with several days' worth of black stubble. Dave didn't argue, he stripped of his bloody clothes and laid them in a pile at his feet. The man, John Bolton judging by his material name badge, simply stared at the small wound on the side of Dave's left calf.   
  
"How did you get that injury?" Bolton inquired, pointing his pistol at Dave's leg.   
  
"I caught it on a brick wall trying to escape some zombies." Dave lied, he knew to admit what had really caused it might result in his death. Dave cast his mind back to the incident, he had been searching for food in an abandoned shop. Several zombies had appeared in the entrance, blocking his way out. Dave had run to the rear of the shop and climbed out through a small window, but as he did so one of the faster corpses had bitten his leg. The man with the stubble just stared at his wound, Dave grasped franticly through his terrified mind for a way out. Bolton seemed to see Dave's fear, and his face softened "Don't worry mate," He said. "We've got a cure for it now."  
  
"Oh thank God!" Cried the relieved Dave. "Then how come everyone has be-"  
  
The shot from Danny's pistol ended Dave's speculation, his body slumped forward, the back of his head a mass of gore and splintered bone. As Danny's shot echoed around the surrounding buildings, he lowered his pistol and looked up from the man he had killed.   
  
Bolton grimaced as he saw Danny's hand tighten around the weapon and fire. As Danny looked up Bolton saw his eyes grow wide in alarm. Bolton whirled round, pistol outstretched ready to eliminate the threat to his rear. Instead of seeing a decaying attacker his eyes filled with something much more terrifying. The landing pad and office roof had given way beneath the Chinook, and it was falling through the burnt out building. The instant this horrific image hit Bolton's eyes, a scything piece of the Chinook's wrecked rear rotor struck him full in the chest cutting through his flak jacket like it was paper. The force of the impact flung the Sergeant several feet backwards, and sent his flying helmet tumbling off the roof. Danny threw himself down next to Dave's corpse as a lethal jigsaw of shrapnel from the rotors whizzed over him. With his hands over his head Danny listened to the ricochets and breaking glass, as the dying Chinook systematically attempted to demolish the surrounding buildings. An enormous crash from beneath him indicated the end of the hideous fusillade. Danny picked himself up and ran to where Bolton lay. He considered giving the other Sergeant CPR, but realized it was pointless. The once proud Aircrew Sergeant now resembled an obscene kebab. The piece of rotor had entered Bolton's ribcage at a diagonal; it now stuck out about three feet into the air. The impact had obviously destroyed the Sergeant's heart and lungs. Bolton's mouth was agape; his disbelieving _expression mirrored Danny's own. Danny turned away from his dead comrade and looked at the hole where the landing pad had been. He quickly came to the conclusion he was in deep dark shit. Walking back to base through the cannibal-infested City did not inspire hope. If Danny was to have any chance of survival, he needed backup. John Bolton was beyond help, but Addison and Swanton might still be alive. He hoped the pilots had got off a May-Day signal before the chopper sank to far into the building. Danny picked Bolton's pistol from his lifeless gloved hand, and began running towards the maintenance access door beyond the huge hole. As he neared the gaping pit in the roof, he slowed his pace and carefully peered over the edge.   
  
  
The outline of the stricken helicopter was five floors below, the sparks from its defunct electric's giving the area in which it lay a faint blue glow. The cockpit was buried under some sections of broken plasterboard, but the frame seemed mostly intact. Leaking fuel glistened as it formed a pool next to the chopper's still open ramp. The blue sparks began to illuminate movement around the wreck. Zombies were moving awkwardly over the rubble, or trying to remove themselves from underneath it. Danny tore himself away and continued towards the access entrance, as he approached he noticed a smear of dried blood around the door handle. He proceeded on cautiously, holstering Bolton's pistol so he had a free hand to open the door. The door creaked as Danny slowly pulled it open, Shafts of light beating the darkness into retreat as the door arced wider. The familiar choking smell of rotting flesh filled Danny's nostrils. A small man in a dark suit lay slumped against the wall half way down the first set of stairs. The two large holes in his forehead had made him rather non-threatening. Must have been an Army assault team Danny mused to himself as he stepped gingerly past the rotting corpse. As the doorway disappeared from view the stairway became increasingly cold and dark, Danny pulled his pen-torch from the pocket of his flying suit. It only brightened a small area, but it was better than nothing. As Danny descended further into the building he discovered more bodies. Judging from the severity of the corpse's injuries it was more of the assault teams work. Army teams had been deployed in the early days of the crisis to cordon and control any outbreaks. The Army sent out patrols to hunt down any stray zombies, kill anyone who had been infected, and generally try to hold back the tide of the undead with force. Storming houses, which had not carried out proper "procedures" on their dead, and stopping the huge number of living dead in the City hospital from escaping and running amok, were two areas where they failed.   
  
  
The cadaver of what was once probably a beautiful young secretary was sprawled on the next landing. Her comely face had been ruined by a barrage of rounds that had smashed her front teeth, and blown away the back of her head. The lipstick she wore would no longer impress anyone. Looking at her reminded Danny of his own girlfriend, who had more than likely suffered a similar fate. He found himself thinking about her work, supervising the mortuary. It still made Danny laugh to think about how she had concealed her job from him for weeks after they met. She thought if he found out about her strange line of work he would be horrified, but when she confessed she found it made her more interesting and attractive to him. Danny shook his head, trying to dislodge her image from his mind; he had more immediate problems. As he picked his way down the next set of stairs, avoiding the carcasses of former businessmen and women, he heard shouting from below, then gunshots. He pressed on quickly down the remaining stairs, still hoping he could save someone today.   
  
  
  
COMMERCIAL DISTRICT, READING   
  
  
Laura ran through the ravaged streets, broken glass crunched beneath her recently acquired combat boots. The boots had been a lucky find, her own hospital uniform shoes had been difficult to run or even walk long distances in. In her hands she held an SA80 Assault Rifle, Laura had counted twenty-four rounds in the magazine, a mix of tracer and normal 5.56mm rounds. Since she had found the rifle she had used ten rounds to dispatch various murderous stiffs. The former owner of the boots had also previously possessed the weapon. Laura presumed the remains on which she found these items were that of a woman, there was little left intact apart from her legs and feet. The small feet and shaved legs had indicated a female. Her skull was near-by, but had been stripped completely of flesh; even her eyes were gone, presumably gouged out by her ghoulish killers. The various trails of blood and gore around the street suggested that she had been torn apart, and the body parts taken away to be eaten privately. Laura ran to the end of the street and stopped, she looked to the left and saw her prey. It was about six feet tall, wearing a woodland DPM uniform; a set of webbing was attached to its tall body. Contained within the webbing were the fresh magazines Laura wanted. The former soldier was about fifteen feet away, walking awkwardly on its broken ankle in the opposite direction to Laura. Having seen it closely earlier, Laura knew it was a zombie. Parts of its face had been chewed into, and its neck was tangle of bites and missing flesh. There was also the matter of it walking around oblivious to the skin crawling crunching that emanated from its left ankle. Shooting it was an attractive option, but the noise would draw more undead toward her. Laura took off her rucksack and removed the surgical saw inside. Normally used for removing patients shattered limbs it had found a new use in Laura's skilled hands. The blade was sharp as a scalpel but the size of a meat cleaver. Laura had found it excellent for killing the unsuspecting walking corpses in the City. She slipped her backpack on, and shouldered her rifle. Creeping forwards she slowly covered the distance between her and her victim. As she got close, the crunching became audible again, just a couple more feet and she would have it. Once Laura was close enough to smell the sickly odors coming from the corpse; she pulled arm back ready to strike. She was close enough to touch the creature now, as she aimed the blade at its neck it turned. The hideous soldier lunged at Laura, its glazed eyes staring at her soft neck. Laura slashed out at it, but the zombie stumbled into her, even as its severed left arm hit the street. Laura fell to the street, a sharp pain struck her back as she landed on her rifle. The zombie crashed down on top of her, it immediately snapped at her neck   
  
  
. Her arms burning with effort, Laura seized the dead soldier's throat and pushed its rasping mouth away from her face. She lowered her grip to the zombie's shirt and pushed up sharply with her right hand, whilst rolling her body to the left forcing the creature off her. It rolled over on the street, but quickly began crawling back toward her, its jaws working up and down in practice for its meal. A kick to its face made it roll onto its back, giving Laura time to scan the ground for her fallen blade. She located it quickly and swept it into her hand. Her former victim was attempting to sit up when her blade flashed down into his skull, ending the cannibalistic urges. Laura took a deep breath then quickly went to the twitching corpse and searched it. As she had seen earlier its ammo pouches contained to full magazines for her rifle. There was also a three-quarters full water canteen, and some mess tins. Laura's eyes widened in excitement when she found two emergency flares and a radio in the dead man's jacket. With flares she could easily be seen for miles by the rescue choppers that flew over daily, with the radio she might be able to communicate with their crews. More importantly if she used flares to attract their attention, she would not run the risk of being shot at, after being mistaken for a zombie. Laura quickly put the canteen and magazines into her rucksack. She pulled the saw from the mans head, whose ID tags identified him as "JOHNS.R", and started to run back the way she'd came. As she ran her mouth widened into a smile as thought about her imminent rescue, as long as the flares were visible through the thick smoke that rose up from the bombed out district, she was as good as saved.   
  
  
It was days like today that made Tim Addison wish he'd pursued a different line of work. The inside of the Chinook was chaos, illuminated with a strobe light effect from the sparking wiring. Tim's head was coated with pain, it had obviously connected with the instruments on the way down. He tried to wiggle his toes, and thankfully they responded, at least he hadn't been paralyzed. After removing his helmet, he checked his aching body over for major bleeds. Only a small gash on his forehead was apparent. As he unbuckled himself from the seat, Tim looked over at his co-pilot. Flying Officer   
  
Swanton was dead, his side of the cockpit was horribly warped and had crushed its occupant to death. The floor and instruments had shifted up and into Swanton reducing his ribcage to half its original size. The man's head lulled forward his eyes closed. "What a bloody waste." Said Tim quietly, fighting to maintain his stiff upper lip. Tim struggled out from the remains of the cockpit, the low moans of zombies mingling with the crackling of dying electrical systems. Something grabbed him, Tim yelled out with fright.   
  
"Christ!" He exclaimed, as the recently dead Swanton tried to pull Tim's arm to his slavering visage. Tim pulled his arm from the zombie co-pilots grip, and groped for his pistol.   
  
"Sorry mate." Said Tim sadly as he fired a round through Swanton's clouded left eye. The dead co pilot's head lolled back a steady stream of dark blood dripping from the remnants of his eye socket. Tim moved forward and removed Swanton's identity disc from his flying suit, carefully placing it into his own pocket. 


	2. Chapter 2

Looking around the inside of the wreck Tim quickly grabbed his rucksack from its resting-place. He quickly emptied its contents, and replaced them with a couple of survival pack-ups from the aircraft's emergency stores. These pack-ups would contain rations, water purifying tabs, flares, medical stores and a small radio. With the atmospheric lighting from the sparking electricity, Tim speedily located the weapon rack within the choppers ruined internals, and efficiently seized and loaded a spare SA80. He also removed the magazines from the two other rifles; ammo was life now he was on the ground. As Tim approached the rear ramp the sickly sweet smell of kerosene invaded his senses; he'd have to avoid firing if possible, or end up part of a vast indoor barbecue. Tim could see the daylight filtering down through the skeletal building. He clambered down over the mangled ramp and found himself standing in a large pool of kerosene. Quickly scanning the area he noticed only one zombie approaching him, the rest were attempting to climb over the wreckage his crash had created. The zombie continued its advance toward him; it was a short blonde wearing a blood stained lab coat. Her stomach had a line of bullet holes along it, but she looked otherwise intact. She looked strangely familiar, Tim almost thought he'd seen her before. The dead girl shambled closer, and opened her hissing mouth. Without thinking Tim raised the rifle and snapped back the trigger. He struggled with the weapon's recoil as it clattered off a full burst of rounds. The girl's head exploded, her corpse managed one more step toward Tim before tottering backwards. As she hit the deck her attractive face scattered across the reception floor like pieces of a macabre jigsaw. The echoes growing faint Tim studied her unmoving remains, whilst mentally cursing himself for firing, not just near the wreck, but on automatic as well. Looking down at the girl's unrecognizable features, then to the name badge below, Tim felt his guts twist. The bold red font on the badge simply read "Robins". Underneath it stated her job "Mortuary Supervisor". Thinking hard Tim managed to link the faceless girl with someone more familiar.  
  
"Shit." Said Tim to the fume filled air.   
  
Robins was Danny's girlfriend, and from all the times Danny had wittered on about her, Tim knew mortuary supervisor was her job at the City hospital. Tim had to find Danny, if he saw this he'd fall apart.   
  
  
  
The door flew open in a shower of splinters as Danny shouldered into it. He brought his pistol up and searched the former reception area for threats, he saw Flight Lieutenant Addison standing over a dead zombie. He quickly ran toward the officer, keeping a watch on the zombies that were reaching the summit of the crash wreckage. "Are you all right, Tim" Shouted Danny, dispensing with the formalities of rank. "Err…. Yeah fine mate," Tim nervously replied. "Chris Swanton's bought it though"  
  
"Damn." Said Danny, as he looked down at the corpse lying next to Tim.  
  
"Danny, mate, you don't wan-"  
  
Danny's wails cut him off, Tim was right it was Danny's girlfriend. Tim watched as the Sergeant sank to his knees, hugging and sobbing over the lifeless girl on the floor.   
  
"No, no, no, why you? Why…" Danny sobbed, as though denial would revive the corpse. Tim eyed the remaining zombies as Danny continued his monologue with the oblivious Robins. The corpses had now advanced over the wreckage and were stumbling toward the hapless aircrew.   
  
"Danny we've got to move, we'll be trapped soon." Urged Tim, the zombies were past the door Danny had entered through now.  
  
"Who cares," Wailed Danny "Leave me here, I want to die!"  
  
"Yeah well I don't!" Roared Tim "I need your help to get out of here, you can do all the dying you want when I'm safe, but until then, Sergeant, you will fucking help!" Tim didn't like yelling at a grieving man, but it was the quickest way to retrieve Danny from his self-pity.   
  
  
Danny began to pull himself together; Tim's words made sense he could still make a difference to someone. He kissed his former girlfriend's hand, and picked up his discarded pistols. Tim was already firing, as Danny ran around him and began firing himself. The two aircrew leap frogged each other toward the stairwell door. Zombie's heads cracked like overripe fruit as the combination of 9mm and 5.56mm rounds stormed through them. Danny made it to the door, and waited for Tim, whilst carefully picking off the undead with his dwindling ammunition. Tim reached the door and fired two shots at one of the few remaining creatures, they were tracer rounds, loaded at the middle of the magazine to remind the user he was halfway out of ammo. The tracers had barely ignited when they struck the zombie's chest. Unbeknown to Tim, the zombie had been soaked in leaking kerosene from the Chinook, and promptly exploded in a spectacular fireball. The flaming zombie staggered off course and back towards the stricken chopper and it's leaking tanks.   
  
"Run Danny, get the fuck out!" Screamed Tim.  
  
Danny didn't need any encouragement he had already turned and run having witnessed the incandescent display. The two screaming men burst out through the fire exit at the base of the stairs. The torch like corpse blundered straight into the large kerosene slick at the base of the choppers ruined ramp, it was the last thing it did, a split second later it was vaporized along with everything else within the building in an ear splitting detonation. The blast knocked Danny and Tim to the ground even though they were half way across the street; the fire exit door flew flaming through the air into the display window of a looted clothes shop. The black smoky fireball from the Chinook's lifeblood drifted towards the heavens. Tim picked Danny up and pulled him down the street away from the now collapsing office block, ammunition within the Chinook was beginning to cook off and cause secondary explosions, sending debris high into the air. With a tortured metallic squeal the much abused building fell into itself, showering the streets below with masonry.   
  
  
Laura's trip back to the second floor flat she hid out in was fairly uneventful. She had used one full magazine to clear the various undead she had encountered on her way back. Another five rounds went on dispatching two zombies who were milling about her residence. Using a long length of wood she knocked down the piece of rope which enabled her to climb up to the second floor. Laura had just settled down to her lunch of cold beans from a tin, when she heard a huge explosion. She looked out across the skyline and saw a large mushroom cloud rising from the Main Street area. It was probably the Army shelling another infested building she assumed. That's exactly what they had done with the City Hospital when it had grown beyond control, a massive air strike, followed by prolonged shelling.   
  
  
Laura and her assistant, Jenny, had escaped via the old Second World War shelter system that ran underneath and away from the hospital. The access for this system lay in the basement morgue, which, ironically no one else could reach because of the huge numbers of undead in that area, but for Laura and Jenny it was a godsend. Cornered in a small storeroom they had desperately kicked the long forgotten access door down, as hundreds of the creatures mobbed round to scrabble and claw against the other door moaning insatiably. When they had emerged some distance from the hospital, they came across an Army patrol, which mistook them for zombies from their blood-splattered garb. The patrol opened fire killing Jenny with a hail of rounds to her abdomen. Laura had run until her legs gave way to exhaustion and managed to evade Jenny's killers. That had been nearly three weeks ago, even thinking about Jenny upset Laura, it was so pointless, and Jenny hadn't even been bitten. Those Army dick heads just shot her up regardless, Laura doubted they'd killed her properly either, the poor girl was more than likely a zombie now, wondering the streets aimlessly.   
  
  
  
Having worked in the morgue, Laura learnt several important things about the creatures people now became when they died. Unless the brain was destroyed the bodies of the dead would revive, and seek warm human flesh to devour. They never attacked each other though, only jostling over a fresh kill at the worst. The creatures lacked any real strength, but in large numbers they could easily break down doors or overrun barricades. Fire was the only thing they feared, Laura had found this out by dousing one of them in surgical spirit and then flicking a match at it. The others backed away from the flaming corpse, giving her the time she needed to escape. Doctors that she had spoken with, before becoming trapped in the morgue, had theorized that a virus was responsible for the reanimated corpses. It seemed to infect you when you died, but also if bitten by a carrier. The only way this made sense to Laura was that everyone already carried the virus in a dormant state, but when you died it became active and caused your corpse to revive. These revived bodies would then attack the living either killing or wounding them. The bites sustained by people who had escaped the zombies would be infected with the active strain of the virus, and after two or three days the infection would turn them. What had caused the virus to become active in the first place though?   
  
  
No one knew where the first outbreak had begun, but the whole world was affected, the dead of any race, color or creed rose up and attacked the living. This pretty much ruled out the biological weapons theory that was banded around. Unless whoever created it wanted to destroy the world. Of all she had learned at the hospital, the most important thing had been to eliminate the creature's derelict brains. Nothing else would stopped them, she'd seen soldiers empty full magazines from assault rifles into the humanlike monsters, only very rarely would a zombie die from body hits alone. The reason these few went down was because the bullet had rebounded around inside the corpse's rib cage and exited through its putrefied skull. The Army never caught onto this though, their soldiers were taught from basic training to aim at the central mass of the target's body, and no one was telling them to do anything different now. Heavy machine gun fire would knock them down but with the size of the mobs they attacked in, it was like eating soup with a fork. Or cold beans, Laura thought bitterly as she began to eat.   
  
  
The legs of Danny's flying suit were on fire; he quickly patted out the flames with his hands and a chorus of four letter words. Danny looked up from the ground and watched Tim throwing off his sizzling backpack. The flares inside burned furiously destroying all of the valuable survival kit. Tim kicked the flaming bag away in frustration, then turned round to Danny, and looked him over.   
  
"You OK Dan?" Said the concerned officer, crouching to pick up a single undamaged flare.  
  
"Oh, fucking fabulous!" Danny replied dejectedly.  
  
"What happened to John?" Asked Tim, his concern still apparent.  
  
"He's dead." Said Danny starkly.  
  
"Dead." Tim echoed "What happened to him?"  
  
"Shrapnel from the rotors hit him, he died instantly" Answered Danny as he stood up, dusting himself off.  
  
"What happened to Chris?" Danny asked. "Was he killed in the crash?"  
  
"Yeah, his side of the cockpit took the worst of the fall, he got crushed" Replied Tim.  
  
"You didn't get a May-Day signal out then?" Said Danny.  
  
"There was no time, one second I'm checking the fuel gauges the next I'm at the bottom of the building."   
  
"Shame, we'd better start moving then." Danny mumbled, as he pointed a finger at the large group of undead which were progressing up the street.   
  
With that the battered aviators began to jog away from the growing crowd.   
  
  
With a soft hydraulic whine the muzzle lined up with the swelling crowd of undead, the sun glinting off it's battle scarred surface. A particularly unpleasant looking corpse eyed the end of the moving weapon with idiotic fascination. Its single remaining eye stared intently up the 120mm bore to see if something worthy of its attention would appear from the darkness, it did. The deafening report from the anti-personnel shell echoed around the packed street. The curious zombie didn't seem to explode; it just ceased to exist, consumed by the fiery flash and thunderclap of detonation. Creatures close to the first disintegrated in a maelstrom of jagged steel and blood. Dust from the street and buildings rose up to conceal the miniature hell.   
  
As the noise faded muffled laughter could be heard from within the Challenger tank. The designer of the carnage, Major Neil Davis allowed himself a brief chuckle along with his men. An Army Major would not under normal circumstances be demoted to the level of tank commander. However, circumstances no longer resembled normal. The apocalypse had dragged Neil from his desk job and back into the command seat.  
  
As a single man with no surviving relatives, Neil did not suffer from angst and sorry like many of the troops. If fact, he found the tactical opportunities of this new war extremely stimulating. Here you had an enemy that was very hard to kill, recruited anyone it caught, required no logistic support, and was virtually fearless. Admittedly it was vulnerable to air attack, armoured assault, and well-trained infantry units. But despite their lack of technology the Deads had made disturbing progress against the living. They had gained territory at a rate faster than anyone could have predicted. Rescue stations, Naval yards, Airbases, the list was endless. Everything fell to them unless given an inordinate amount of protection, but this was no guarantee of safety. Even the most fortified building was vulnerable to infiltration from within. A wounded civilian with an unnoticed bite, non-brain destroying suicides or even accidental deaths had all given the Deads infiltrators. A few victims taken in the dark and a small uprising would begin. Thankfully, now that the virus was better understood, the military had become far more ruthless in suppressing the rising army of death. The gloves were off now, the Geneva Convention completely ignored. Napalm, Chemical weapons, Anti-personnel mines and anything else the military could lay their hands on were being routinely used. This had led to limited success where napalm was concerned, but supplies were dwindling. The attacks with nerve agent yielded strange and disturbing results. Instead of inducing paralysis and complete brain death as advertised, the agent appeared to work in harmony with the virus, causing zombies to develop the speed and dexterity of a healthy human. This toxic cocktail did nothing to curb their vicious appetite though, especially for victim's brains, and it had taken nine days and over five hundred casualties to terminate the inhabitants of the test village. Despite this use of exotic arms, conventional weapons still provided better body counts.   
  
  
A very messy but highly effective strategy had been to deploy armoured units to cities. The tanks would rumble down the streets two abreast and contain the zombies in a dead end or against a pair of blocking tanks. The contents of this armoured dragnet would then be put out of their misery with flame-throwers or machine guns. It was during one of these missions that Davis and his crew had run into their predicament.   
  
  
"Excellent shot, Private" Commented Davis with revived hope. It was good to see the plan might work.  
  
"Cheers, Sir" Replied the tank's gunner, Private Sam Monroe, whilst knowing a blind man could have made the shot, it was still nice to be appreciated   
  
"Right then gentlemen, we wait until the crowd grows again. Then we fire three shots into them at increasing distance from the tank," Davis paused for effect.   
  
"Get out, use the diesel in the jerry-cans outside to block and burn the undead behind us. Then quickly and carefully make our way to the shop at the end of the street."   
  
There was a small chorus of acknowledgment from Monroe and Corporal Hebden, the tank's increasingly defeatist driver. The shop Major Davis referred to was an electronics outlet, which had its security shutters down. A crude doorway had been fashioned earlier in the morning using the turret-mounted machine gun's remaining fifty-caliber ammo.   
  
"Right then, lets load up and get ready." Said the Major. A metallic clang rose up from the tank's floor as the spent shell casing was released from its captivity in the breach. Munroe's well-practiced hands quickly removed another shell from the ammunition rack, and slid it smoothly into the main gun.   
  
"Up!" He reported, out of habit more than anything else. The cramped insides of the Challenger became a hive of activity as the three soldiers readied personal weapons, and struggled to don their backpacks in the confined space. With around ninety rifle rounds each the tank crew didn't have the luxury of a slow walk to safety, blazing through the zombies outside on a grim turkey shoot. The creatures knew they were here and continued to wait them out.   
  
  
  
  
The best scenario to hope for was that the three anti personnel shells would clear a bloody path, allowing the crew to get to the shop before survivors or additional undead spilled out from side streets, and alleyways. Sam considered it to be a very scary proposition, but the crew was out of options. The tank was warm, familiar, and above all impenetrable, but all of its plus points disappeared in the face of an overwhelming problem, the tank's immobility. Having lost a track two days ago, trying to negotiate a pile of rubble and crushed cars, the tank had sat dormant. The crew's radio calls went unanswered; whether the other tanks had been recalled to defend RAF Drayton or had pushed on into the City was unimportant. Whatever the reason, no support or rescue had been forthcoming. The thick smoke overhead had also reduced the likelihood of being spotted from the air to near zero. Once stationary the gathering of the dead had begun, dozens then hundreds of zombies mingled around the dark green monolith of modern combat. An attempt to repair the damaged track had ended disastrously with the Challenger's Combat Engineer Private Rob Johns dragged away to a ghastly torment. With the water ration consumed, and dehydration on the horizon, the Major had come up with his "Crowd Control" plan. Once they made it to the shop at least they would have a supply of water, perhaps even food. They would then fortify the building and assess the new situation.   
  
  
Davis looked out through the turret's observation slit at the reforming mob outside. The test shell must have killed around twenty of the creatures outright, and badly maimed another thirty odd. It was difficult to be precise though; the gore soaked streets now resembled an abattoir, rather than the up market shopping area it had been mere weeks ago. Swarms of flies hovered around the growing army awaiting the opportunity to lay their eggs on the truly dead. People had initially said the Deads would just rot away after couple of months. The egghead scientists quickly discovered the unpleasant fact that the zombies did not and would not rot. The virus kept them from doing so, only areas of acute tissue damage would decay. Even then it was not natural decomposition, just gangrene and other infections. Waiting them out was never an option. The surviving zombies from the first attack mingled with others newly on the scene, a few crawled around on the floor their legs missing or too badly damaged to carry them. Neil continued to watch the macabre parade until the street appeared sufficiently full.   
  
Get ready." Said the Major quietly. Sam hunched down in front of his fire controls, his right eye on the scope. Hebden snapped his weapons cocking handle back chambering a round. Sweat was beading Neil's brow as he gazed at the nightmare outside through the thick armor glass. He clutched his weapon tight and took a deep breath   
  
"Fire!"  
  
The tank rocked violently as the scene outside disappeared in a bright flash. A wave of thick gore covered the observation slit. Shell splinters and concrete collided with the tanks thick armor, making only a dull noise through the inches of steel. Designed to withstand direct hits from the worlds most potent anti armor weapons, the tank's hull just shrugged off the close range blast.   
  
"AP round, increase elevation five degrees! " Shouted the now slightly deaf Major.  
  
"Up!" Yelled Sam.  
  
"Fire!"  
  
The instant chemical reaction powered the AP round down the barrel at an astounding rate. It exploded a fraction later, reducing more of the undead to random pieces of shredded meat.  
  
"AP round, increase elevation five degrees!" Repeated Neil as he tried to make sense of the smoke covered bloodbath. With the next round already in his hands, Sam undogged the breach, and the smoking shell case clattered onto the floor. He slid the fresh one into the chamber, clamped it shut, and stabbed the new elevation into the fire controls.  
  
"Up!"   
  
"Fire!"  
  
More razor sharp shrapnel bounced off the Challenger's thick green carapace. Neil squinted through the blood, but couldn't make out anything in the smoke filled street. It was now or never he thought as he unlocked the hatch, and pushed it open.  
  
"Go, Go, Go!" He yelled down into the tank.   
  
Rising out into the acrid street Neil fought the urge to gag. The tank had been sealed down for nuclear, biological and chemical warfare conditions, the crew had been breathing filtered air for days, and they were no longer used to the zombies' ripe smell. The shocking mix of foul odors outside was overpowering. The metallic tang of blood mingled with the smell of burnt flesh. Neil clambered out of the turret, and carefully made his way to the rear of the tank. He aimed his rifle down the street, trying to see potential attackers through the thick dust that stung his eyes. The large mob of creatures at the rear of the tank seemed largely untouched by the triple bombardment. The tank's armor protecting them as it did its crew. Monroe and Hebden made a speedy exit from the tank and joined the Officer on the tank's engine deck, both aiming at as yet unseen threats. Hebden winced as the heady cocktail of the street assailed his nostrils.   
  
"God it stinks out here." The Corporal complained as he pulled his combat shirt up over his nose and looked over his shoulder at the miserable view beyond the front of the tank. The swirling dust began to settle revealing the extent of the carnage. Everywhere lay truly dead cadavers or their liberated limbs and entrails. Blood mingled with the settling cloud of dirt as it dripped from walls. The pavement and road were now slick with blood, it gathered together to form streams, which slowly made their way toward drains. The Corporal glanced back and saw that the rear zombies had faired much better. Only a few had gone down to wild ricochets. The diesel waited patiently on the decking. The three men unfastened the fuel cans and poured them liberally over the reaching crowd below. The creatures ignored the torrent of noxious fuel that showered down, and continued to scrabble mindlessly for a handhold on the tank's smooth rear. Several fell as the crew launched the empty jerry cans into the highly flammable throng.  
  
"Secure the front of the tank." Said Neil, above the clamoring zombies.  
  
Hebden and Monroe nodded, heading for the front of the tank and the street beneath A small chorus of shots sounded as they executed the ghouls who had taken refuge at the tanks protective flanks.  
  
"Its geddin' hot in here," The Major quietly taunted the mob, as he backed away, box of matches in hand. He struck one then put it back into the box, and threw the resulting mass of flame into the dieseled corpses.  
  
"So take off all your clothes." Neil shouted, and turned away from the spreading inferno.   
  
  
  
A few battered cadavers blocked the road to the shop, peppered with shrapnel and missing arms, the survivors posed little threat.  
  
The trio of soldiers shot down the handful of pathetic walking wounded that opposed them. The staggering amputees fell to meet their brothers and sisters, already littering the street. Sam kept his fear in check as the crew reached the point of no return; they were now closer to the shop than the tank. Glancing back, Sam could see the blaze at the tanks rear had grown, and was consuming all that came into contact with it. Major Davis gestured to Hebden to check the alleyway on the left of the street. The soldier nodded as he began to pick his way over the various body parts between him and his objective. Davis motioned for Sam to watch the right side of the road and the other alleyway further up.   
  
  
Hebden could feel his heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and terror, never a dull day in the cavalry he thought bitterly. His finger searched dexterously for the SA80's safety catch, he didn't want to piss about with it if things turned sour. The catch snapped back into the armed position, as Hebden moved the change lever to automatic with his free hand. Moving slowly, but breathing quickly the soldier covered the last few feet to the alley, and steeled himself for what he would see.   
  
  
The ground rose up to meet Tim Addison for a second time as he tumbled over the wall and hit the deck. Stars and other small flashy lights filled his vision as he tried to make sense of which way up he was. The cursing and firing from the other side of the wall became more intense as Danny held off the zombie hoard that had hunted them from the crash site. Tim got groggily to his feet waited for Danny's hands to appear at the summit of the wall. He heard a faint shout above the firing and assumed Danny was ready to jump. Sure enough the sound of his pistols stopped and his gloved hands came into view, followed by his sweating face. Tim reached up, seizing the Sergeant's hands and then pulling them back, but Danny seemed to be stuck. A small yelp of terror came from the now struggling Loadmaster, as he jerked and lashed out with his feet at an unseen assailant. Suddenly Danny came free and tumbled over the wall headfirst into Tim, the two men crashed into the waiting floor in an undignified heap. Danny untangled himself from the Pilot and examined his lower left leg with deep unease. Tim sat upright and looked at Danny's concerned face.   
  
"They didn't bi……" Tim trailed off, unwilling to ask a question, the answer to which he feared.   
  
"Bite me?" Danny finished Tim's question and smiled. "No, and I don't think one of them will be biting anyone again."   
  
Tim looked down at the source of Danny's amusement. The rubber sole of the Sergeant's flying boot heal was imbedded with a full set of upper and lower front teeth.   
  
"That's disgusting," Said the pilot, still staring at the bits of nerve hanging from the bodiless teeth.   
  
"He'll need a very open minded dentist." Beamed Danny.   
  
The two men laughed at the bad joke, the zombies didn't seem to get it though and continued to scrabble against the brick wall. Danny looked down the small alleyway as he used his right foot to pick the teeth from his boot.   
  
  
It seemed zombie free, just some old crates and a wheely-bin occupied its length. It's normality made it seem strange, no blood, no bodies, the backdoors to the shops weren't even boarded up. Danny freed the final tooth from his boot and got up. He began walking down the alley, Tim stood and followed.   
  
"This is a bit odd." Said Danny as he reloaded his remaining pistol, having dropped the other when it ran out of ammunition.   
  
"Yeah, creepy." Agreed Tim whilst scanning the deserted alley. As the aircrew advanced along the alley it became apparent the doors had all been locked. Perhaps the owners had not been caught entirely unawares. Danny approached the end of the alleyway, a solid metal door with a secure looking padlock lay ahead of him. Obviously designed to keep out thieves it had also prevented the dead from gaining control within. Tim trotted up alongside and began to move the padlock experimentally.   
  
"Know how to pick one of these, Sir?" Asked Danny wryly.   
  
"No, fraid not."  
  
Tim looked to the top of the door, but the coiled strands of razor wire made the idea of climbing over very unappealing. The dead could also be heard on the other side, obviously attracted by the voices of the living.  
  
"Let's just kick one of those shop doors in, and go around." Said Tim indicating a yellow door a few feet away.  
  
"Yeah soun-" A roaring disquiet cut him off, and made the whole alley shake. Loose tiles fell from the rooftops around them as vibrations coursed upward. "What the hell was that?" Shouted Tim, his hands clamped firmly over his ears.  
  
"I don't know!" Danny replied. "Just kick the bloody door in."   
  
Tim looked at Danny, his lips were moving but he couldn't hear him, then another blast rippled through the alleyway. The metal door sprouted numerous dents and bumps as it deflected lethal projectiles. Everything was silent now, but Tim could see and feel the buildings shaking. He looked at Danny, who was now glancing about wild eyed, looking for a safe place to curl up and hide. Tim grabbed the dumbfounded Sergeant and pulled him back toward the other end of the side street. Even as they began to run the world rocked beneath their feet a again, this time the explosion was so close it knocked them to the street. Tim yelled at Danny's unmoving frame, but couldn't even hear himself. He glanced back toward the steel door and saw it replaced with an insane artist's sculpture of twisted steel and fire. Another eruption rattled through the Officer and everything faded to black.   
  
  
  
It was wearing a RAF issue-flying suit, which had prevented its body burning the same way its face had. The soldier raised his rifle slowly, savoring the kill, he was too slow. The zombie was on him in a split second, the small bark of Hebden's rifle did nothing to slow the creature's charge, it's solid bulk connected well and sent him down. The impact of the floor drove the wind from his body. He struggled to hold the creature back as he gasped for air. The shouts of Major Davis and Sam did little to comfort Hebden, as his resistance to the snarling zombie waned with lack of oxygen. Once his arms collapsed the terribly burned creature pushed the soldiers face to one side and bit deeply into his jugular. Blood squirted over the zombies charred face as it nuzzled deeper into Hebden's throat with satisfied moans. Dying and unable to scream Hebden prayed silently for merciful death. His prayers were answered seconds later by a burst of automatic fire from the Major's rifle. Both the feasting cadaver and its victim died as the steel-jacketed rounds bisected their skulls. 


	3. Chapter 3

RAF DRAYTON, BUCKINGHAM, ENGLAND   
  
  
"Flight two zero seven nine, come in, over." The RAF Air Traffic Controller continued his one way conversation with his microphone. "Flight two zero seven nine, report your status and position, over." The signal returns speaker simply hissed with static by way of reply. "What was the aircraft's last known position?" Asked a rather nervous looking Flight Lieutenant. The Controller's brow furrowed as he mentally plotted the choppers last location, the green glow of the various radar screens in the control tower making his frown more pronounced.   
  
"According to their last transmission they were landing on an office in Reading, that would account for them disappearing from the radar." The Controller swiveled round in his chair and continued his analysis.   
  
"But when their on the ground the crew should report in at least every fifteen minutes, its been nearly an hour now, Sir." The Flight Lieutenant considered the Controllers words carefully, forming a solution to the problem, or a possible alternate scenario to a chopper crash.   
  
"Could they just be picking up a large number of survivors?" Said the Officer. "Or perhaps their radio has malfunctioned."  
  
"Both highly unlikely, Sir, the crews hardly bring back more than one or two survivors per trip now." The Controller explained "That would only require two or three minutes on the ground, and the chopper carries several back-up radios."   
  
The Officer took a deep breath and released it with a sigh.   
  
"OK then, scramble the SAR chopper and have the crew do an aerial search of two zero seven nine's last co-ordinates."   
  
"Yes, Sir." Acknowledged the Controller whilst groping for the telephone.   
  
  
  
Sam leaned against his rifle and stared down at the pool of vomit he had just produced. He could hear the Major shouting at him, but to look at him meant to look again upon the cannibalistic carnage. The incident rewound in his mind, the blood, the brutality, and Hebden's look of abject terror. God, what could have gone through his mind in his last seconds with that thing eating him alive? Sam gagged again at the thought, his stomach compliantly evacuating the remains of his morning rations.   
  
"Pull yourself together, Private." Yelled the Major, as he experimentally prodded the flying suited corpse with his rifle.   
  
  
The Major looked impatiently at his young Gunner and decided not to bother "motivating" him anymore, for the moment. Instead he rolled the charred body off of his dead driver and examined it. Much of its face had burned to a crispy black, clear liquid oozed from the burns, white blood cells attempting to prevent infection of the wounds. Its chest had a huge diagonal gash right across it; the exposed wound had crisped having been denied its protection from the extreme temperature. Neil looked disgustedly at the bodies quivering legs, a nervous reaction to the speed of the brains demise. The name badge on the creatures flying suit was at least as badly burned as its face, only the second name was readable, "Bolton" it informed in bold white font. The intense heat the former airman aircrew had been subjected to had even melted the pens in his various pockets, they now resembled strange wounds of blue and black upon his suit. The body must have been fairly fresh, judging by the speed and ferocity of its attack on Hebden. Neil diverted his gaze from one set of mutilated remains to another. The semi-devoured soldier's jaw had been blown off by Neil's well-aimed burst. He knelt down next to Hebden and carefully closed his unseeing eyes. Shrugging mentally, Neil removed Hebden's full magazines from his webbing, and the partially fired one from his weapon. They were no longer of any use to the dead man. Neil's knees cracked off as he stood, turned and quickly assessed the street. Apart from himself and Private Munroe, the street was devoid of life. This pleasant situation was unlikely to last long though. Blood and entrails slipped and squelched beneath Neil's boots as he approached the sole survivor of his command.   
  
"Come along, Private, the damn zombies won't give us all day." Said Neil, in what he hoped was a humorous tone.  
  
"Yes, Sir." Managed Sam, his words devoid of enthusiasm. Satisfied he had restored his man's morale, Neil continued to walk toward the shop, and the possible safe haven it offered. He was pleased to hear Private Munroe fall into step behind him.   
  
  
Reading was beginning to sound like a war zone. Hell it was a war zone Laura reminded herself. There was some serious firepower being unleashed close by. It didn't sound like artillery though, there was no screeching whistle as the shells descended on their journey to self-destruction. With no aircraft noise overhead, it didn't appear to be an air strike either. As quickly as it had begun the noise of the explosions faded away, Laura had heard only three shots. Did this mean the attackers had run out of targets, not really possible in a place like this, or had they been overrun and slaughtered? She continued to listen but could hear no more than a shuffling zombie outside. On a small wooden coffee table nearby lay the radio; the possible tool of Laura's escape had been depressingly silent. She had called out on it several times on several channels, but no one had replied. The battery meter on its display was full and it seemed fully functional. Perhaps its range was fairly short, in any case Laura decided to wait and use it when a chopper could be heard nearby, thus increasing her chances of a rewarding conversation.   
  
  
In the midst of this new silence, Laura's thoughts drifted to her boyfriend. She had called him shortly before things at the hospital had gone severely downhill, but he hadn't been at the flat they shared. The man was dedicated to his job, so he was usually there if not at home. She was about to ring him at work when the screaming on one of the wards had started. With the payphone left swinging back and forth on its cord, Laura had followed various other doctors and nurses down the bleak hospital corridors to the bone chilling shouts coming from D ward.   
  
  
Eight year old Ian Harris had been quietly sleeping off the rigors of his appendix removal operation. He had been anxious to avoid going to the hospital, but the nurses had been nice, and he would have a cool scar to show his friends at school. Ian was awoken from peaceful slumber by a searing burning sensation in his left arm. As his eyes shot open in alarm, he realized why his arm hurt, the girl from the next bed along was biting him. She had already removed a mouthful of his forearm, and was preparing to take another. Ian's piecing shriek filled the ward, awakening the other children.   
  
  
The poor kid was still flailing desperately against his twisted attacker when the doctors and nurses had arrived. The deranged girl also bit several of the medical staff as they attempted to pull her away from her mortified and screaming victim. Laura tried to comfort the other children as the medics swept the privacy screens around the blood stained chaos. Having restrained the girl and strapped her to her bed, the doctors were surprised to find she did not show any response to the sedative they gave her. The rabid girl just continued to wriggle and attempt to bite the medics. Confusion rained even further when no pulse could be found from the girl's body. An ECG was wheeled in and the sensors stuck to the young girl's chest, but it only showed a flatline. The nurses changed the sensors and then the entire machine to no effect. The medical team stared at each other aghast, the girl was dead. No pulse at all and she only breathed when air was needed to growl. A doctor began reading her notes, they stated she had been admitted over a month previously. Having drowned at local lake, she had been revived by paramedics, but had not regained consciousness. She had been in this coma over a month and her vital signs had been slowly declining. Laura now knew the girl had finally died during the night, and then proceeded to attack that poor kid. But at the time zombies and the living dead weren't peoples first thought to this unprecedented situation. As the medics discussed the not so dead girl, Laura's mobile had rang with an urgent message that the morgue where having problems with several of their residents. After that the hospital had devolved into a feeding ground and slaughterhouse.  
  
By the next time an opportunity to call her man had arrived all the phones had been useless, dead as the residents of her morgue. It made her sad to think about him, she hoped he was somewhere safe.   
  
  
Danny swam in a sea of pain, the surf was fiery and acidic, making him burn and itch all over. The motion of this ocean of agony made avoiding vomiting a difficult objective. Danny's throbbing mind struggled with the concept of what was happening to him. He assumed he'd died, and was now in purgatory for all the evil acts he'd committed in his life. As the waves of fire lapped around him, Danny felt pressure on his leg; something was dragging him below the waves. Gasping and struggling Danny disappeared beneath the searing red liquid. The air in his lungs exhausted, Danny breathed in expecting a torrent of boiling water to flood his empty lungs. Instead of watery torment, he gasped in dusty air. His ears rang with an insistent shrill, but it was slowly giving way to a more familiar and pleasant sound. "Danny, Danny, come on mate wake up, we've got to go." Said a concerned voice, urging him to consciousness. With teeth gritted against the all-consuming pain, Danny open his stinging eyes, the mess around him slowly came into focus. The alley was covered with dust, giving it a Middle Eastern look to it. Small craters and marks decorated the walls where shrapnel had left its deadly calling card.   
  
"Come on mate, get with it." The voice insisted, as it shook Danny's shoulder. He slowly turned his head to identify his phantom motivator. The view changed to that of a young man, with a lean angular face and slicked back dark hair, both of which were coated in dust. Tim's bleak _expression did an abrupt one eighty as his face transformed to its usual smile.   
  
"You all right mate?"  
  
"Yeah, just a bit beat up I think." Danny croaked, whilst attempting to rise to his knees. Danny clutched his left shoulder and winced, he pulled his hand away and examined the blood on his fingers.   
  
"Looks like you caught a piece of shrapnel." Commented Tim as he poked the wound experimentally.   
  
"Oww, fuck off, it hurts enough as it is." Cried Danny as he staggered unsteadily to his feet, batting away Tim's probing hand.  
  
"It seems the Army have started shelling again." Tim gestured to the evidence that covered or scarred the alleyway.  
  
Danny made a muffled acknowledgment as he sifted through the dust and grit for his pistol. His good arm trawled around until it made contact with the cold metal object. Tim adopted a similar search for his rifle. Absorbed with their minor quests neither man heard the low click of a safety catch being set too armed.   
  
  
After Hebden's particularly unpleasant demise, Major Davis was taking no chances with this pair of bastards. He stalked closer to the undead aircrew, deftly avoiding the small piles of broken glass those crunches could give him away to his targets. Both of the former men were coated in white masonry dust. One was standing; the other was sifting through the rubble for an unseen item. The standing creature had a large bloodstain on its left shoulder and was swaying gently as it observed its companion. Neil moved his rifle sight to the crouched creature's head, his finger rested against the trigger as he made final minute adjustments to the aim. As if sensing its impending demise the creature stood, in its arms was a rifle identical to Neil's own. The man with the rifle began to talk with his pistol holding fellow. The Major lowered his weapon, staring at apparently living men to his front.   
  
"Are you men OK?" He ventured. The two men spun round see the source of the voice weapons up and aimed as they fought to control their surprise.   
  
"Who the hell are you?" Spat the pistol man, weapon shaking in his trembling hand. The man with the rifle remained ominously silent.   
  
"Major Davis, Tank Commander with the 10th Heavy Cavalry Regiment." Said Neil in his poshest officer voice. The weapons aimed at him lowered, and the two dusty aircrew advanced down the blasted alleyway toward him. The rifle wielding man stopped a few feet in front of Neil and saluted.   
  
"Flight lieutenant Addison, 18 Squadron Chinook pilot, Sir," Addison gestured toward his wounded companion. "And this is my Loadmaster, Sergeant Wilson." The sergeant put up a halfhearted salute, which Neil returned.  
  
"How did you men end up on the ground?" Asked Neil, cradling his rifle.  
  
"We crash landed near Main Street, then fought our way here, Sir," Addison explained, as he glanced around.   
  
"Looks like we walked right into an artillery strike."  
  
"Well, actually," Neil searched for the right way of enlightening the two airmen about the carnage he'd wrought. Sam's shouts and the noise of rifle fire saved him the trouble.   
  
"Their coming," The unseen soldier shouted, his young voice flavored with hysteria. "Thousands of 'em!"   
  
  
  
RAF DRAYTON, BUCKINGHAM, ENGLAND   
  
The EH101 Merlin waited patiently for its masters to arrive; it did not appreciate the gentle early glow of the sun as its human crew did. The sun evaporated the remaining dew from the sleek yellow SAR helicopter, whilst the crew walked toward it. The four-man team walked in two pairs. At the front Squadron Leader Gary Philips chatted with his Co-pilot, Flying Officer Tom Chan. Their winch -men cum door gunners followed behind, both men pointing and laughing at the Deads attempting to cross the minefield just beyond the perimeter fence.   
  
"How many do you reckon Stevo?" Asked Sergeant Jarvis. The ginger and freckled Sergeant Steve "Stevo" Stevenson gazed at the overall clad zombie as it shambled onwards. It was grossly fat, a key factor in Stevo's deductions.   
  
"Five." Said Stevo flatly.  
  
"Five?" Questioned Jarvis.  
  
"Yeah five."  
  
"No way!"  
  
"Fifty quid says five."  
  
"You're on." Said Jarvis, his eyes widening at the prospect of easy money.  
  
As if on cue, the zombie went vertical on a shower of earth and sparks.  
  
"One." Smiled Jarvis.  
  
The flailing creature landed again minus its right leg, and promptly took off again its left arm accelerating far above it.  
  
"Two."  
  
It impacted with the ground and bounced up again, paying for this flight with its right arm and the remains of its head.  
  
"Three." Jarvis reported, less buoyant now.  
  
The ruined trunk shot upwards yet again, entrails streaming out like a grotesque exhaust plume.  
  
"Four."  
  
The smoking hunk of flesh sailed down to a rough landing near the fence and remained still.  
  
"Shit." Said Stevo glumly, fishing for his wallet.  
  
"Ah, see mate, they never make more than four." Laughed the gleeful Jarvis, as he relieved Stevo of his fifty quid.   
  
  
  
The pilot's dialogue was less jovial.   
  
"Did you see the news last night?" Inquired Gary.  
  
"Yeah, looks like the Army have all but given up on Central London, their saying there's nobody left to save." Replied Chan grimly, as the two men reached the chopper's door. "Even the tank companies are running out of ammunition, they can't shoot those things quick enough. For every one they blast, blow up or run over, ten more take its place."  
  
Gary nodded sagely, and climbed into the chopper, Chan followed. Both men still had good morale, given the situation. Philips had his immediate family on the base in relative safety. Chan had avoided a messy divorce with his philandering future ex-wife. She was now in allegiance with the enemy.   
  
  
The two pilots settled into their positions in the complex cockpit. After strapping in, they began their pre-flight checks. Jarvis and Stevo conducted a brief examination of the choppers external systems, checking intake plugs had been removed, the machine guns had adequate ammunition and a dozen other tiny but vital checks. The pilots continued tapping various keys and flipping a multitude of switches, which would bring several tons of aluminum to life. With their checks complete the winch-men gave a thumbs up to the pilots, who began the engine start-up sequence. As the air filled with burnt kerosene fumes and the loud thumping of rotors slicing the air, the winch-men clambered aboard. Moments later the Merlin was carving its way aloft to find its fallen brother.   
  
KIXONS ELCTRICAL STORE, READING   
  
  
All they needed were placards or banners doused with political slogans, and this would have been the largest civil demonstration Reading had ever seen. But these demonstrators had no social or political motivation; they were just hungry, extremely hungry. Neil stared at the closing mob with awe, thousands had been an understatement. Sam shouted and gestured from the bullet carved doorway of the electrical shop.   
  
"Move it guys!" He shouted, waving his arms to reinforce the urgency in his voice. Seconds later Neil and his aircrew comrades darted through the jagged metal opening, the wailing dead close behind. Neil glanced round the dark inside of the shop, everywhere lay smashed TV's and assorted paraphernalia, in the far corner he could see the outline of a corpse, unmoving in the dark stain that surrounded it. "Sergeant," Shouted Neil whilst throwing of his backpack. Danny looked up from checking his ammo. "Secure the 2nd level of this building."   
  
Danny nodded and began working toward the stairs, pistol outstretched in a double handgrip.   
  
"Private, grab a functional TV and follow the Sergeant." Continued Neil.  
  
"Yes, Sir!" Shouted Sam as he eyed up a 14inch Panasonic with pseudo surround sound, and 3-year warranty. He dropped his own backpack and snatched up the small TV.  
  
Neil turned to Tim.   
  
"You and I will attempt to barricade the door." He gestured to the large fridges and washing machines around the showroom.   
  
"We'll use these."  
  
The two servicemen grappled with the nearest washing machine and walked it into the doorway. Just as they eased it into its final position the first zombie scout appeared. The white-faced ghoul clutched at the air and addressed the living at its front.   
  
"Uuuuurgh." It said, before its head disintegrated, showering its associates behind with gobbets of sticky red material. Before the now headless body hit the ground Tim and Neil began dragging a fridge freezer combo toward the open gap. A former man wearing an expensive French Connection shirt, and sporting extensive facial gangrene, began industriously climbing the washing machine in his path. The fridge freezer cut his valiant efforts short as it plowed into his rotten face. The collision and weight knocked him from his perch, and sent him back to the street outside, crushing both his legs. Clutching arms began to appear at the sides of the makeshift blockade, and zombie pioneers began to attempt another climb. Tim dragged a third kitchen appliance over on his own, as Neil emptied his remaining rounds into the crowd in two long bursts. This high velocity abuse brought a torrent of protesting moans from the horde, which continued to surge forward over their dead and crippled  
  
"Plenty more where that came from wankers!" Shouted Neil, clearly pleased with the destruction his shots wrought.  
  
Neil whipped his empty rifle onto his back and assisted Tim in manhandling a second fridge freezer into place. Bleached and blanched arms continued to feel for food, their owners heedless of the jagged metal edges of the doorway that bit into them. The fridge slid into place, reducing the illumination in the shop even further. The living wiped the sweat from their brows, and took a couple of deep breaths before seeking out the next component of their blockade by torchlight.  
  
  
Danny heard the gunfire downstairs and shivered, things were real bad. He'd seen swarms of zombies before, but never from the ground. Seeing them chase people down from the air was scary enough. But from here it was terrifying seeing these packs of creatures on a level where they could reach you. He tried to swallow his fear, but it stuck in his throat. He'd had to hold his pistol in both hands to try and stop them shaking excessively. So far the 2nd floor had been empty, just normal upstairs offices filled with desks, chairs and filing. Danny had spotted a coffeepot in the first room and had vowed to return.   
  
"Coffee and a ciggy and I'll be all right." He said quietly to no one in particular. Danny reached out with his shaking left hand and turned the handle to the door of the third and final room. It was locked; the pale brown door refused to move. Danny looked round at Sam who did his best to shrug while training his rifle on the potentially threatening door. The door was thin, cheap and weak. His Dad having been a carpenter gave Danny an eye for woodwork. The pain in his shoulder flared as he withdrew his hand from the door handle.   
  
"Cover me." He said, grinning at the pathetic action movie dialogue. Sam nodded and held his rifle even tighter. Danny drew back two paces and charged into the door, which held fast and sent him sprawling to the floor. Writhing on the floor and muttering various curses to the Gods of woodwork, Danny watched as Sam sent the door crashing inwards with a well placed kick. The broken lock clattered across the floor of the room, and the door opened fully to reveal the grisly spectacle of what was inside.   
  
  
The body of a heavily pregnant woman lay at the back of the room. A single hole in her dry forehead, two further holes ran through her white maternity dress into her bloated belly. Her mouth was covered with dry gore. The body of a small boy lay near to her, partially eaten, with a similar bullet wound in his head. Sam immediately turned and ran from the room, the foul air and grisly scene too much for him. He stood gasping at the top of the stairs spitting bile. Danny put his sleeve across his mouth, stood and walked into the room. The pair had been killed in this spot, judging by the bloodstains that decorated the walls. Evidently a concerned citizen had discovered the mother's makeshift feast, and felt duty bound to end it. Shooting the unborn child was the aspect that made Danny particularly nauseous. Just when he'd thought he'd seen every horror this desecrated City had to offer, a new one raised its twisted head. For a moment life ceased to have purpose, and darkness overwhelmed him. He had seen similar acts of brutality in the course of his duty, but nothing seemed to compare to this tragedy. He felt like turning his gun on himself, but managed to overcome the urge. Other than the bodies the room was empty, the sun filtered in through the small window overlooking the rear of the shop, dust kicked up by the forcible entry floated through the shafts of light. Danny backed out of the room and pulled the wounded door closed as best he could. He approached the young soldier.   
  
"You OK mate?" He said gently to the sobbing tank gunner, who blatantly wasn't.  
  
"I'll be fine, Sarge, just give me a minute." Sniffed Sam, turning to face Danny as he spoke. Danny looked into the young soldier's eyes, and could see nothing but complete emptiness. Almost as though the soldier knew he would be at peace soon. Danny had seen that look before, in a man who had shot himself seconds later.  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
"Sam, Sam Monroe." Answered the gunner slowly.  
  
"I'm Danny, pleased to meet you."  
  
Danny extended his hand, which Monroe shook.  
  
"Now listen Sam, I know what you just saw was some horrible shit. But you've got to put it out of your mind, just focus on getting out of here." Lectured Danny in his best shrink's voice.   
  
"I've seen worse things than that today, and the only way to get round it is to help the people you can still make a difference too."  
  
"If you kill yourself, you're killing the rest of us." Danny calmly stated. Sam's red eyes widened at the realization his suicide plan had been figured out. He was almost angry his easy way out had been denied. But as the Sergeant continued, Sam began to see how selfish his ideas had become.   
  
"Without you we're down to three men. You're better trained with weapons than the Flt Luey, and myself. Without you our firepower is reduced by a quarter." Danny decided to finish his motivational talk on a lighter note.   
  
"Besides I'd be the only non-com left, and having two officers bore me to death is not a pleasant way to go."  
  
Sam chuckled, a grin brightening his tear-streaked face.  
  
"You're right." Sam said quietly. Danny nodded and began to descend the stairs.  
  
"Danny,"  
  
"Yep?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Anytime, mate."   
With the four men working together the makeshift electrical product barricade was quickly completed. The dead continued to protest their objections to the situation by continually banging on the security shutter or attempting to disassemble the blockade of consumer goods. After a short search with his torch, Danny discovered the light switch and the room's carnage became fully lit up. The body lying in the corner was a young man holding a 9mm Browning pistol. His once smart pinstripe suit had been ravaged by the liberal number of machine gun rounds that had passed through it. Three rounds had removed his face and left an ugly mass of glossy red butchery in its place. Neil began to think a warning shot might have been prudent, prior to carving his doorway.   
  
"Upstairs must have been his handiwork." Sam pointed accusingly at the faceless stiff.  
  
"What's upstairs?" Asked Neil, looking up at the ceiling.  
  
Sam looked away.  
  
"It ain't nothing nice, Sir." Said Danny, trying to get the Major away from the unpleasant subject. Neil seemed to understand, and nodded.  
  
"Is the second floor still habitable, Sergeant?"  
  
"Two of the rooms are fine. Just steer clear of the one with the brown door." Was Danny's assessment. Again Neil nodded, then he turned and went back to the area he had left his backpack in earlier. Carefully he removed small lump of what looked like light blue Play-Doh. A small black device followed, and Neil returned to where the other men stood.   
  
"Here gentlemen we have enough plastic explosive to eliminate the staircase." The men looked at his hand and then to the wooden stairs.  
  
Neil gestured to the now shaking fridge freezer defenses behind him.   
  
"That lot won't hold them back for long, so we need to create a position which allows us access, but not them." Neil paused, his nimble mind noticing one drawback. "There are other ways out of the building upstairs aren't there Sergeant?"  
  
"Plenty, Sir, a window leading out to the rear of the store, and a skylight in the other two rooms at the front." Danny continued, his mind slipping into tactical gear.   
  
"The rooms with the skylights also have windows that overlook the streets."  
  
"Excellent, lets get ourselves upstairs then."   
  
By way of punctuation a fridge and washing machine tumbled from the stack and were replaced with two determined ghouls.   
  
"Ring the bell next time dick heads!" Barked Neil as he dispatched the uninvited pair with the dead man's Browning. Tim and Danny disappeared upstairs with the Major's backpack. Even as the first two fiends collapsed, more creatures pushed them out of the way and advanced. Sam shot each one of the dead from the stairs as they crawled through the gap in single file. With the gunner covering him Neil placed the PE on the seventh step up, and set the detonator to one minute.  
  
"Get into cover Private!" Shouted Neil above the din of Sam's blazing rifle. Sam ceased fire, then ran up the remaining stairs and hid with the Aircrew behind a large upturned oak desk.  
  
Neil emptied the remaining 9mm rounds into the face of a rotting tramp, the fat bearded wino lay twitching in the small gap, blocking it for precious seconds. The Major dashed up the stairs and ran into the front office, immediately sighting his comrades' hiding place. Crouched down with them, fingers in his ears, Neil waited for the detonation.   
  
SAR FLIGHT 01, OVER READING   
  
  
The patchwork of green and brown gave way to the bland spectacle of gray, as the SAR helicopter hammered its way over the City's outskirts. The door gunner clattered off a few more rounds before the easy targets of the countryside disappeared. Philips remembered Jarvis saying each ghoul he killed was a tiny piece of revenge for his son. The view from the cockpit grew dim as the chopper entered the thick black smoke that marked the ruins of the City hospital. The gunners coughed and spluttered as the cabin filled with choking smoke. But quickly as it appeared the smoke dissipated and the ruins receded into the distance.   
  
"Three minutes to last contact." Said Chan, carefully scanning the terrain ahead for tell tale signs of a crash.  
  
"Eyes peeled everyone." Added Philips.  
  
The Squadron Leader nudged the chopper slightly left, avoiding the mauled tower block ahead. He craned his neck round to check for survivors on the roof, more out of habit than hope. No one was there.  
  
Suddenly Chan piped up.  
  
"Large smoke column, twelve o clock. It's at the last contact point."  
  
Philips deftly slowed the chopper to a hover, and peered down at the ruined building. He couldn't make anything out through the smoke; it just cascaded up, hiding its secrets.  
  
The left side gunner, Sergeant Jarvis, came onto the radio.  
  
"Looks like a Chinook, Sir, I can make out the nose and rear rotor stack."  
  
Philips strained his eyes, but could still see nothing.  
  
"Any survivors?" He said.  
  
"I can only see one body in the cockpit. No survivors evident." Said the Sergeant, his dull voice betraying no emotion.  
  
"Do you think anyone made it out?" Asked Chan, as Philips circled the crash site.  
  
"Stranger things have happened, Sir, I'm sure if there around here they'll let us know." Answered Jarvis with characteristic disinterest.  
  
As the chopper continued to circle like an ugly yellow vulture, Jarvis caught site of a creeping mist of red smoke coming from a house a couple of streets away from the crash site.  
  
"Jesus!" He exclaimed, all boredom abandoned. 


	4. Chapter 4

"Red signal smoke, eight o clock. I think we've found 'em!"  
  
Rescue for the stranded aircrew had arrived.   
  
  
Laura's heart raced as it struggled to drive enough blood around her body to maintain the extended sprint. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears as she approached the end of the road. The yellow helicopter was now hovering less than half a mile away. The red signal flare in her hand burned brightly, but the chopper ignored it, dipped its nose and flew away in the opposite direction. Laura screamed franticly into the radio. The reply was white noise.  
  
"Answer me you bastards!" She screamed at the diminishing chopper in the distance.  
  
Looking back toward her hideout she saw dozens of creatures spilling out onto the street, staggering like drunken Saturday night revelers. The street was quickly choked with them. No going back she realized. She'd been rash trying to signal the chopper like this. Still it wasn't hopeless, Laura knew of another safe place to hide up, and it was just a couple of streets away. She threw the burnt out flare to the ground. The radio did not follow though, and Laura placed this back into her pocket. She trotted forward and unslung her rifle. The creatures would not let her through easily.   
  
  
  
KIXONS ELECTRICAL STORE, READING   
  
  
The stairs had blown away almost perfectly, leaving the zombies with no route to the 2nd floor. As an added bonus the wooden splitters from the blast had riddled several of the creatures to true death. They lay twitching whilst the remains of the mob listened to Sky News emanating down from above. With Danny's shrapnel wound patched up, and Sam guarding the destroyed stairs, the other survivors watched TV. Tim stared intently round the presenter trying to see his wife in the background. He knew she was still working at the Sky News tower, which had been afforded the level of protection normally reserved for nuclear power plants and military installations. The temporary military government felt that information was almost as vital as firepower. Tim would agree to any philosophy that kept his wife alive and well. The presenter droned on about the latest news from the States. It seemed that all major cities had become infested and were unlikely to be retaken anytime soon. A graphic filled the screen, showing the movement of the undead around the UK. The ever-present list of rescue stations fed across the bottom of the picture. The presenter returned and began a story about the Army's problems with Challenger tank tracks.  
  
"We told those dick heads this years ago." The Major muttered, clearly annoyed his criticisms had gone unheeded.  
  
"What's that?" Said Tim, cocking his ear into the distance.  
  
"The tracks are useless in built up areas, that's what happened to us. The track broke and we got stranded."  
  
"No, in the distance, sounds like a chopper." Tim said, as he stabbed the remote's volume button.  
  
The room filled with quiet as all four men listened to the dull thudding of rotors.  
  
"Must be search and rescue!" Grinned Tim.   
  
"Quick Danny, get the skylight open and chuck out a flare."  
  
Danny discarded his mug of coffee and jumped onto the oak desk. Twisting the key round, and pushing up sent the skylight creaking open. He lit the flare and tossed it out onto the roof tiles, where it burned fiercely.  
  
"Can you get out through the gap?" Asked Tim.  
  
"Only just, you'll have to give me a leg up." Grunted Danny as he struggled beneath the small opening, his wound throbbing painfully.  
  
Neil and Tim grabbed a foot each and pushed up hard, and Danny clambered out across the shop roof.  
  
"They're heading this way." Danny shouted excitedly, waving his arms at the approaching helicopter. As it flew in parallel to the building Danny saw the door gunner raise his dark visor. It was Stevo, one of his old mates from basic. Stevo mouthed the word "Wanker!" and accompanied it with the correct gesture. He then grinned and gave a thumbs up as the chopper flew above the besieged building to lower its winch.   
  
  
Laura was beginning to panic; she should have gone left not right. She cursed again her foolish impatience for escape. The damn zombies were at every side of her now, all intent on the same thing. She ran forward changing magazines on the move, this was her last one, a couple of dozen ghouls had fallen foul of her now. An elderly dead blocked her path, shaking with the effort of movement. His face stowed in, as the butt of Laura's weapon met with it. Ignoring the falling corpse she ran to the end of the road, and finally recognized where she was. Swiping her matted blonde hair from her eyes she turned left and dashed onward toward alleged safety. With all the distractions around her, Laura never noticed the battered traffic sign, which declared the road a dead end.   
  
  
With Danny pulling from the roof and Neil shoving from inside, Tim quickly escaped the confines of the office. The SAR chopper continued to fine tune its hovering position as the Stevo made ready to be lowered. The din was becoming unbearable; the entire roof felt like it would shake apart as the helicopter resonated above. Danny sat fingers in ears while Tim shouted down to the Major.  
  
"You ready, Sir."  
  
"Hang on. I'll get the Private up first." Was Neil's reply.  
  
"Private, get your arse in here."  
  
Neil could hear no response above the chopper's thunderous engines. He snatched his rifle from the desk and strode out of the doorway. The scene that confronted him was as unexpected as it was horrifying. Sam Monroe was held up in a sitting position, his rifle lay discarded at his side. The butt of it covered with crimson gore and gray matter. Holding him up was a ghoul, its face that of a young man. The creature appeared normal apart from its excessively pale complexion and blood caked mouth. With its free hand the creature rummaged around inside the Private's opened skull for further sustenance. Neil felt cold as he realized what he was seeing. The number thirty one was sprayed on the brain eater's shirt. Thirty one had been one the few nerve gas test-subjects not accounted for. It had been assumed it was destroyed in a napalm strike. Evidently this theory had proved wrong, way wrong. It must have been able to jump up and grab hold of the soldier, who had assumed he was safely out of reach.  
  
The subject dropped Sam's brainless body and looked up at Neil. It let out a wild snarl threw the dead soldiers rifle at the Major. Chips of plasterboard showered down as the rifle narrowly missed and slammed into the wall. Leaning against the opposite wall, Neil fired a volley of shots from the hip, hitting the now charging ghoul in the heart. The creature jerked back but barely slowed. It reached out and grabbed Neil's rifle with parts of Sam's uneaten brain still dripping off its hands. The weapon jerked back three times as Neil fought to aim at the monster's head. Two shots went wide, but the third splattered the monsters left ear across the white ceiling. Undeterred by its loss the creature continued to wrestle with the Major, bashing the rifle against the wall until Neil's bruised and bloodied fingers were forced to concede their grip of it. With the rifle in it's fiendish hands the growling ghoul bared its bloodied teeth and threw Neil to the floor. It stood over him rifle raised high to crack Neil's head and gain another satisfying meal. Neil's foot flashed up into the monster's groin, and slammed into a mass of blood and torn flesh.   
  
"Fuck." Gasped Neil.  
  
The creature ignored his attack and sent the rifle down at his skull. Neil raised his arms and screamed as the hard butt thudded against them. The ghoul was poised to raise the weapon again, when the right side of its head split open and sprayed the wall in bright red blood and pale nutmeg brains. The rifle fell from its lifeless hands and it slid down the wall leaving a trail of gore.  
  
"What the fuck was that?" Yelled Danny from the doorway, smoking pistol forgotten as he took in the bloodbath before him.  
  
Neil stood up and rubbed his assaulted arms.  
  
"Someone's bad idea." The Major replied, just loud enough to be heard through the noise of the chopper. He reclaimed Sam's rifle and ammunition, then his own. Crouching over the young soldier's body, he said his final words before departing.  
  
"Bad luck, Private, I'm sorry."   
  
  
A dead end was the right description; the smooth concrete block wall easily rose fifteen feet into the air. Laura ran back around the corner to find the only way out saturated with zombies. Every single one of them sighted her and continued their relentless march for food. Snapping off two shots, Laura killed the fastest of the gang, two men in tatty suits. They fell and were trampled by their advancing associates. There was no way out, all the buildings that faced onto the street were warehouses, no doors or windows to break through. Just imposing steel shutters. Laura fought for control, she was beginning to lose it. She ran back to the wall and tried to scale it. The sheer structure was impossible to climb, Laura looked at her grazed arms and felt warm tears stream down her face. She was going to die, just because she'd rushed out without planning what to do. It made her angry to think she'd have been fine if she'd just waited. She might have seen Danny again and lived through this nightmare, but no, not now. All because of her stupid impatience. The horde of creatures appeared round the corner and moved forward as one, arms outstretched to capture her in a deadly embrace. Laura aimed through her tears and sent three more crashing to the ground, blood pumping from neat head wounds. Others stepped over the fallen, competing for limited space in the packed alleyway.  
  
The creatures were still forty feet away when Laura resolved not to let them take her.  
  
"Goodbye Danny." She sobbed, whilst raising the hard rifle to her chin  
  
With that Laura Robins closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.   
  
  
With Danny and the Major safely winched aboard Philips spun the chopper and headed back toward base. Danny sat on the hard canvas seat, thinking about Laura's death back at the crash site. He would say something to Tim when they landed. The man had done the right thing; Laura wouldn't have wanted to be wondering round like one of those things. This day had easily become the worst of Danny's young life. He almost wished he hadn't survived, Sam had had more to live for than him. Still, there was one thing he wanted to know before he died. What the hell was that thing attacking the Major? If there were more of them running around then humanity really was screwed. Perhaps one of those things had gotten to Laura. Danny sat tormenting himself with images of her being caught. He shivered and shook his head, trying to hold back the grief that threatened to break him.  
  
"Hold it!" Yelled Jarvis "We've got a live one down here."  
  
The Sergeant directed the chopper back over the spot he had seen the survivor. Danny and Tim rushed to the door, where Jarvis was already blazing away with his machine gun. A blonde woman with a rifle was below, backing away from a baying horde of re-animated corpses. Stevo hooked himself to the winch and tapped Jarvis.   
  
"Let's go mate, they've nearly got her!" Yelled the winch-man.  
  
"Take the gun." Jarvis shouted at Danny. Quickly getting into the fire position, Danny expertly carved down the front row of the Dead's ranks. The large rounds blew a fine scarlet mist from each of the foul horrors. The woman continued to back away, throwing her rifle at the crowd. Jarvis lowered Stevo down, using the winch console to make fine adjustments to the helicopter's position. The winch-man squeezed off rounds from his pistol, and more Deads fell clutching their leaking heads. Tim and Neil were at Danny's side now emptying their rifles into the fearless mob. The foul creatures fell by the dozen faces holed or smashed away, but the mob was nearly on the woman. A stinking corpse broke ranks and went for her. Nearly making it, until Stevo's booted feet collided abruptly with its head. The ghoul hit the concrete wall headfirst and its skull disintegrated like an egg, its red yolk spilling out. Perhaps inspired by its fellow's bravery another zombie shambled toward the woman, hands outstretched to rend her warm body. But Stevo was there first, and grabbed her roughly round the waist. Philips instantly increased the turns hauling them both upward out of reach. The creature looked up longingly at its denied meal until a round from Danny's weapon punched through its forehead.  
  
  
  
Danny's blackened face drained white as he gazed at the woman they'd rescued.  
  
She looked back at Danny equally astonished.  
  
"How…but?" Danny muttered, his confusion mind melting.  
  
"Danny!" She cried, as the Sergeant swept her up in a hug. She placed her tear stained face against his warm chest, and squeezed him tighter.  
  
"You're not hurt are you darling?" Danny asked, almost wishing he didn't have to.  
  
"I'm fine." Laura sobbed. "They never got to me. I'm OK."  
  
This time it was Danny who squeezed tighter.  
  
The Merlin continued to fly over the battered City, as Laura recounted her tale to Danny the best she could, with the booming engines, and occasional gunfire from Jarvis' weapon competing to drown her out. Danny found himself particularly interested in the fact that Laura had lent her lab coat her assistant shortly before the girl was shot, and that her attempted suicide was thwarted by running out of bullets. He could barely believe it all; the day had gone from a nightmare to a dream.  
  
"Have you seen the inside of the Sergeant's Quarters?" Danny inquired.  
  
"Does it have showers?" Laura asked, the staccato howling of the engines hiding her coy tone.  
  
"Yep."  
  
"What about a bed?" Laura's tone and _expression became alluring.  
  
"Yep." Danny was grinning now.  
  
"Then I'm all yours." Laura cried, planting a kiss on Danny's lips.  
  
If Danny's smile had gotten any bigger his head would have fallen off. 


End file.
